So I’m bingeing on Beckett lately (for a book that I’m working on) and happened across this sharp little comment on patriotism (p. 21 in his essay ‘First Love’, first written in French as Premier Amour, 1946):

What constitutes the charm of our country, apart of course from its scant population, and this without help of the meanest contraceptive, is that all is derelict, with the sole exception of history’s ancient faeces. These are ardently sought after, stuffed and carried in procession. Wherever nauseated time has dropped a nice fat turd you will find our patriots, sniffing it up on all fours, their faces on fire.